Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Over my heart, in the days that are flown, Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Only a Baby Small. ONLY a baby small, Dropt from the skies, Ten little toes. Only a golden head, Only a tongue that wags Loudly and oft; Empty of thought; Only a little heart, Troubled with nought. Only a tender flower Sent us to rear; While we are here; Only a baby small, Never at rest; Small, but how dear to us, God knoweth best. MATTHIAS BARR The Jolly Old Pedagogue. "T WAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, Tall and slender, and sallow, and dry; His form was bent, and his gait was slow, His long, thin hair was as white as snow; But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye, And he sang every night as he went to bed, "Let us be happy down here below;a e The living should live, though the dead be dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He taught his scholars the rule of three, For a kind old heart in his breast had he, And the wants of the smallest child he knew: "Learn while you 're young," he often said, With stupidest boys, he was kind and cool, The rod was scarcely known in his school; And too hard work for his poor old bones; "Besides, it was painful," he sometimes said, "We should make life pleasant here below, The living need charity more than the dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, And made him forget he was old and poor. "I need so little," he often said, "And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead,” Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. But the most pleasant times that he had, of all, Were the sociable hours he used to pass, With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall, Over a pipe and a friendly glass;- The jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles;"I'm a pretty old man," he gently said, "I've lingered a long while here below, He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, Every night when the sun went down, On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown; He sat at his door one midsummer night, Gently, gently he bowed his head,— There were angels waiting for him, I know; He was sure of happiness, living or dead, This jolly old pedagogue, long ago. GEORGE ARNOLD Ode on the Centenary of Burns. WE hail this morn A century's noblest birth; A Poet peasant-born, Who more of Fame's immortal dower Unto his country brings Than all her kings! As lamps high set Upon some earthly eminence; And to the gazer brighter thence So through the past's far-reaching night A gentle boy, With moods of sadness and of mirth, But half his mother's cares From his dark, searching eyes, Too swift to sympathize, Hid in her heart she bears. At early morn His father calls him to the field; Through the stiff soil that clogs his feet, Chill rain, and harvest heat, He plods all day; returns at eve outworn, To the rude fare a peasant's lot doth yield To what else was he born? The God-made king |